


it took all the man in me (to be the dog you wanted me to be)

by star_sky_earth



Series: sleep [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Brother/Sister Incest, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Incest, Jealousy, Loss of Virginity, Multi, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Pseudo-Incest, Somnophilia, The 100 (TV) Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-17 08:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17557067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/star_sky_earth/pseuds/star_sky_earth
Summary: Bellamy has always known that developing feelings for Clarke was a colossal fuck-up of epic proportions. Knew that Octavia - his jealous, possessive, adored baby sister - wouldn't be able to handle it.Knew that she’d be utterly consumed by the idea that Clarke could see a side to her brother that she couldn’t see. That he would find something in Clarke that he couldn’t, and shouldn’t, find in her.That’s really the only explanation for what happens next.A prequel/retelling of 'love is a verb (love is a doing word)' from Bellamy's perspective.





	it took all the man in me (to be the dog you wanted me to be)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel/retelling of 'love is a verb (love is a doing word)' - you don't have to have read it to understand this, but I do highly recommend it!
> 
> Title taken from 'Atlas Air' by Massive Attack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sc0mH-dBMr4
> 
> Mind the tags!

Bellamy loves both his girls. 

\- 

He loved Octavia instantly. He was seven years old when a squalling, squirming bundle of baby sister was dropped into his skinny arms, and he’s never looked back. 

She was a difficult baby. From the day she was born, nothing pleased her. She didn’t want to eat, didn’t appreciate being held, was indignant at being put down. Everything provoked the same reaction - sheer, unadulterated rage. Used to Bellamy, who by all accounts had been an unusually accommodating infant, Aurora Blake was woefully unprepared for a baby who seemed to regard every attempt at interaction as a personal insult, if not a direct threat. 

The only thing that Octavia liked was Bellamy. The only time she didn’t cry was when he held her - so he held her all the time. Aurora thought it was a miracle, but even at seven years old Bellamy knew that the truth was much simpler. Octavia was his sister, his to take care of, his to look after. His. 

It took him a lot longer to warm up to Clarke. 

Bellamy had been blindsided when he turned up to collect Octavia from her first day of kindergarten and found her attached to a tiny blonde girl with the biggest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Literally attached - Octavia had apparently attempted to plait their hair together, creating a knotted snarl that the panicking teaching assistant eventually had to cut through with scissors. For the next six months they walked around with matching chunks of missing hair, like little bookends. He was sure that his sister had done it on purpose.

At first, Bellamy had drowned in a toxic mixture of jealousy and relief that his sister had found a second focus for her often overwhelming love. He bitterly resented this spoiled rich girl’s intrusion in their home, especially when accompanied by the pitying looks that her mom gave him during drop-off and pick-up. He didn’t understand why Clarke, whose packed lunch cost more than their entire weekly food budget, had picked his sister to be her friend.

It wasn’t until he finally saw Clarke and her mom interact - saw her mom’s disinterest, her distraction, her _absence_ \- that he got it. To a girl who’d spent her entire life being politely ignored, Octavia’s single-minded, intense attention must have been a revelation.

That was all it took for Bellamy, twelve years old and already decidedly on the side of the underdog, to come to a decision about Clarke.

Her mom didn’t want her? Fine. She’d be his, too.

\- 

Bellamy loves both of them equally, but differently.

He was born to love Octavia.

He chose to love Clarke.

\- 

Octavia and Clarke have only one thing in common - their attachment to each other. Aside from that, they’re as different as it’s possible for two girls to be. 

Octavia is a brat. Terrifying and horrible and amazing, less a girl than a force of nature. Bellamy has known her for her entire life, and he still gets overwhelmed by her chaotic energy, still finds himself letting out a long exhale of relief after she tears out of a room, dust settling behind her. 

She does absolutely nothing around the house. Bellamy cleans, and does the laundry, and buys the groceries, and then she tears through like a tornado and he does it all again. She stole a can of hot-pink paint when she was nine and ‘painted’ her room, and he had to spend three days scrubbing Octavia, and Clarke, and the floorboards down with white spirit. He’s had to devise a complex system of tricks, threats and home-made gift vouchers to get her to do her homework with any consistency. Her favourite voucher is the one that reads BELLAMY BLAKE’S SOUL in his cramped block handwriting. She made him sign the back, and blu-tacked it to her bedroom wall next to her mirror. 

Octavia has no regard for personal space, dragging him around by the hand and generally treating his body like a jungle gym. If he drops his guard for a instant she’s on him, wrapping her scrawny arms around his waist or lodging herself under his arm, grinning up at him in victory. She wears his clothes, clean from the closet and dirty from the floor. She’s stolen his leather jacket so often it smells more like her than him. 

Bellamy has no privacy. He has the very opposite of privacy. It’s a miracle that Octavia sleeps in her own bed, one that he thanks God for daily. He had to buy a lockbox for his sex toys, and she pouted for a week when he wouldn’t give her the combination or tell her what was inside. All his girlfriends have hated her, even Gina, who was so empathetic and understanding that Bellamy once caught her tearing up over a sock missing its pair. 

Perhaps a normal brother would get annoyed with Octavia, but it’s never occurred to Bellamy to be anything other than absolutely in awe of her. She does only what she wants, doesn’t give a single shit about anyone that isn’t him or Clarke, is completely and utterly unwilling to accept her place in the world. Every impulse he’s ever squashed down or denied, Octavia indulges without fear or guilt. He’d make all his sacrifices again twice over - the minimum wage job, the pathetic social life, living in his childhood bedroom at the age of 22 - just to keep her exactly how she is. 

Clarke is an entirely different species. His princess has never handed in a single late piece of homework, dresses appropriately, says ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’, and ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, and all the other word that seem to have passed his sister by. She’s blonde where Octavia is brunette; has a soft, curvy body instead of a whippet thin frame; an innocent, heart-shaped face that has never quite lost the suggestion of baby fat. 

She’s quieter than Octavia, a serious little thing with a mind full of too many grown-up thoughts and imagined problems that Bellamy wishes he could take from her. Clarke treats every decision as if it has the potential to end the world, putting the same amount of energy into choosing a breakfast cereal as she does for selecting her class electives. She’s sensitive, carries the problems of the world close to her heart, feeling a personal responsibility for every issue from global warming to socioeconomic inequality. He longs for her to grow a thicker skin just as much as he wants her to stay the same forever, wants to force the hard world to reshape itself to keep her safe.

Sometimes, when Clarke gets too lost in her own head, Bellamy likes to get his fingers on her and tickle her until she’s laughing and shaking and a bit out of control, force her back into being the kid she should be. It’s worth it even if she’s always angry with him afterwards. It’s worth it _because_ she’s always angry afterwards, and it’s always adorable - stamped feet, heaving breaths, little smudges of pink blush high on her cheekbones that make him think of cotton candy. 

At fifteen, Clarke has lost the unconsciousness of childhood, hasn’t yet gained the confidence of adulthood, stranded at an age where every action is carefully considered, every touch a question. After knowing each other for a decade, Clarke has somehow redeveloped an edge of shyness around him, a push-pull where she wants him close but always shies away when he gets too near. They used to rough-house like puppies, grab and nudge and poke each other as meaningless and easy as breathing, but in the last couple of years she’s distanced herself a bit, only let him hug her a handful of times, only when she’s been really upset or overwhelmed. Every time he holds her now, he tried to memorise how it feels. Squeezes her tighter, never sure if its the last time she’ll let him get this close to her. 

Clarke is _sweet_. There’s no other word for it. Or perhaps there are too many words for it - awkward, earnest, vulnerable, young - words that all boil down to the same thing: an unbearable tenderness in Bellamy’s chest that catches him with its sharp edges when he’s least expecting it. 

\- 

Bellamy wishes he could point to a single moment where it all changed. It would be easier, perhaps, to ignore his feelings if he could isolate the trigger point, could track back through all the complex chains of action and reaction that led him here. 

But, if he’s being honest with himself, there wasn’t any single thing that made him fall for Clarke Griffin. It just kind of snuck up on him. Maybe it was there from the very beginning. By the time he realised what he’d gotten himself into, it was already too late. 

He remembers when he first figured out that he had a problem. 

It was early on some ordinary Sunday morning, around 8am. Far too early for Octavia to be up yet. Weekend mornings were usually just him and Clarke. Octavia always slept in, the deep and peaceful sleep of a girl who operated purely on instinct, who had never felt the cold gnaw of anxiety or second guesses. 

Quiet weekend mornings with Clarke have always been one of his most simple joys, one of the few times in his life when everything seems to slot into place and the world is easy. He likes sitting in the kitchen with her, drinking coffee, watching her absorbed in her homework, head bent so close to her books that her forehead almost touches the paper. The early morning light filters through the thin curtains and illuminates her, makes her hair look even blonder, her skin paler and more delicate. She clutches her pen in her left hand like a dagger, chicken scratch handwriting working its way across the page in a fury once she gets going on something that interests her, which is often. Sometimes she’ll look up and catch him watching her, gifts him a quick soft smile nothing like the ones she gives Octavia or her mother. Clarke is different when it’s only the two of them, lets her emotions drift closer to the surface, allows herself to be a bit more open. She’s still shy though, blushing if they hold eye contact too long. It’s cute.

This particular morning was slightly different from their usual routine. He was sat at the kitchen table, pretending to read an article on his phone but in reality watching Clarke carefully make pancakes, her face screwed up in concentration as if she was solving a Millennium Prize problem. She’s always been an awful cook, truly horrendous, but she’d insisted on making breakfast for him - a late present in honour of his 22nd birthday the week before. 

He remembers thinking that Clark had been different lately, newly appreciative of him and everything that he did for her and Octavia. Octavia was typically dismissive of Clarke’s change in attitude, rolling her eyes every time Clarke offered to help clean up after dinner or do a load of laundry, but Clarke persisted. She might have been _sweet_ , but she hadn’t been friends with Octavia for ten years without learning how to stand up for herself if she really wanted. 

It hadn’t taken long before Clarke ran into problems with the pancakes, the smell of burning batter hitting his noise as grey smoke started curling up from the pan. Bellamy forced himself to remain in his chair, determined to let her sort it out on her own, but then there was a clatter of metal, and she was swearing, snatching her hand away like she’d hurt herself, and he was up and next to her before he’d even thought about it. 

He turned off the heat and moved the pan to a back burner before turning his attention to Clarke. 

“Let me see,” he demanded, holding out his hand.

“I’m fine,” she feebly protested, her hand held behind her back. He easily reached around her, grabbed her hand and examined it carefully, ignoring her annoyed huffs. 

Their pans were old and cheap, plastic handles starting to get loose, and she’d put her hand in the wrong place, getting a nasty burn on her right index finger. Aside from her initial outburst she’d barely reacted - but then, Clarke had always had a high threshold for physical pain. 

Bellamy led her to the sink, blasted the tap on cold, testing the temperature with the back of his hand before guiding her injured finger under the icy water.

“Bellamy, I’m not a kid. My mom’s a doctor - I know how to treat a burn.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, deliberating if he should get the first aid kit. “You know how to treat a burn as well as you know how to make pancakes?”

She shut up after that, and he felt a brief pang of guilt. He’d been too harsh on her. He couldn’t help it - nothing stressed him out as much as her or Octavia getting hurt. He squeezed her hand gently in a silent apology for his abruptness.

Bellamy held her hand under the flow for 30 seconds, counting elephants in his head like he’d been taught at school, before he pulled it out to take a look. The skin wasn’t blistering, only red and shiny. He pushed it back under the water anyway, to be safe. 

“You’re alright princess, just keep it away from heat for a while.”

Clarke didn’t reply.

Panic over, Bellamy finally registered their position. In his rush he’d crowded Clarke up against the sink, their bodies pressed close together as he leant over her shoulder to look at her hand. He surrounded her - his feet on the outside of hers, her head barely reaching up to his chest, her tiny hand engulfed in his large one. 

Like a switch being flipped, or the needle of a record player skipping onto a different track, desire swept through him. 

She felt good against him. He wanted to move closer, crowd her against the counter, move his hands down to circle her tight little waist and hold her in place, lean down and put his mouth where her neck met her shoulder. He imagined kissing her neck, the way she’d shiver and tremble against him, her hands clutching at his as she tried to process the feeling, as he carefully grazed his teeth against her sensitive skin. He’d turn her around in his arms, lift her up to perch on the sink. Kiss her, slow and gentle and deep while he guided her legs around his hips, her ankles crossing at the small of his back, barely able to reach around the bulk of him. 

Maybe it would be her first kiss. He wasn’t an idiot, knew that she’d probably kissed people before, but the slightest possibility that he could be her first still set a dirty thrill running through him.

He could smell the warm early morning scent of her, the lingering memory of sleep on her skin, the strawberry sweet of her hair. It made his teeth itch with the urge to bite into her. 

Clarke was frozen in place, breath caught in her throat, and he knew then that she felt it too, this train wreck of a thing between them. She made a small, desperate sound, somewhere between a whine and a gasp, and arched her body slightly into him. Almost like a reflex, like she hadn’t really meant to do it, blindly following where her body led her. 

Baby’s first seduction. 

His hand tightened around hers, ready to spin her around and to him. 

A door slammed upstairs. Octavia, awake.

Bellamy stepped back.

\- 

He couldn’t have known then what that moment would mean, how many times he would look back and work it over in his memory, wondering how things could have worked out differently. At the time, he remembers thinking only one thing.

_Shit._

\- 

Bellamy is tired. It’s been another frantic Saturday night at the bar, packed to the gills tonight with dickhead college boys and girls who are too young to know they can do better, and all he wants to do is collapse on the couch and play CoD for a while to switch his brain off.

He’s been tired a lot, recently. Since what happened with Clarke in the kitchen, he’s felt on edge, constantly fighting with himself, body strung tight and tense.

Bellamy knows all the arguments why he shouldn’t feel this way about Clarke. Even if he sets aside the really damning stuff - her age, the fact that she’s practically his sister - there are still a fucking avalanche of reasons why it would be a spectacularly bad idea. She’s his sister’s best friend. She’s got no real family aside from him and Octavia. She’s got no experience, never had a boyfriend, has never fucked anyone before. Their lives are already enmeshed, twined so close together that if anything were to go wrong, there’d be no way to pull themselves from the wreckage.

None of the arguments help, sensible though they are. They feel flimsy and intangible, logic slipping uselessly through his fingers when he sets it against the immutable fact of how it felt to have her body against his, the way he feels when he’s around her. 

He may have started falling for her slowly, so slowly he didn’t even realise what was happening, but now everything is spiralling wildly out of control. 

Everything she does is a torment.

If she’s in the room, he can’t focus on anything else, obsessed with the smooth curve of her waist, her perfect tits, the slim line of her legs disappearing under her school skirt. He daydreams about how she might taste, from her sweetheart pink mouth to her cunt. He aches constantly with the desire to touch her, to run his hands over her body, put his hand on the nape of her neck and pull her to him, where she belongs. 

At night he strokes himself roughly, trying to keep his mind off Clarke, only a few metres away, sleeping in his sister’s bed. He always fails. He can’t look himself in the eye in the mirror anymore.

It doesn’t seem like Clarke is doing any better, and her obvious feelings for him only make it worse, make him want her more. She’s incapable of making eye contact with him at all now, fidgeting and squirming and generally driving him mad. She’s lost the ability to hold a coherent conversation when he’s in the room. She’s apparently developed some kind of oral fixation, always chewing on her fingernails or the end of a pen or her lip, until he’s one step away from bending her over the back of the couch. 

Her shyness triggers something dark and possessive in him, makes him want to protect her and consume her whole at the same time, torn between the two extremes until he’s dizzy with lust.

Clarke is so innocent, so utterly incapable of acting cool around him, he doesn’t know what he wants to do - kiss her sweetly until she cries, or put her on her knees.

He’s painfully aware that he’s only slightly better at hiding this than she is. He tries, and he thinks that he manages to fool Clarke at least, who is probably blinded by her trust in him as a responsible big brother figure. But if Octavia hasn’t noticed yet, it’s only because she’s not looking for it. The one thing standing between Bellamy and discovery is the fact that this whole thing is too insane for Octavia to even consider as a possibility - which isn’t a comforting thought.

Bellamy puts his key in the door, silently praying that Clarke and Octavia are in bed, or at least in their bedroom. He can’t handle it tonight, knows that he’s too tired to keep his longing out of his eyes.

There’s no luck, and as he steps into the hallway he sees the light on under the living room door. He considers going straight upstairs to bed but stops himself - knows that Octavia will be upset if he doesn’t say hi, knows he won’t be able to sleep properly if he hasn’t checked in on them and made sure that they’re okay. 

He knocks on the door, pushes it open without waiting for an answer. 

His living room looks like the set of a Teen Vogue photoshoot run by anarchists. There’s a shitty teen rom-com playing on the TV, magazines and candy wrappers scattered over the floor, a half-melted tub of ice cream dripping on the already stained coffee table. The whole room smells of burned popcorn and acetone. There’s obviously been some kind of manicure action going on, cotton wool balls and nail files littered on every surface, and Bellamy grimaces as he notices an open bottle of bright blue nail varnish precariously balanced on the arm of the couch. 

In the centre of the chaos sit the girls, Clarke behind Octavia, plaiting her long black hair into pigtails. 

They look up as Bellamy opens the door, heads bobbing up in unison like meerkats. Clarke at least has the grace to look slightly ashamed by the mess, eyes flicking down as she twists her lip between her teeth. Octavia just grins brightly at him, unfazed by the destruction around her, as always.

“Hi girls.”

Clarke looks at him briefly, shoots him a weak smile before returning to her task. He’d think she was unaffected by his sudden appearance, but he knows that her heart is pounding in her chest, can see it in the way that her fingers tremble slightly as she works, blue nails flashing as she plaits the dark, glossy strands of his sister’s hair. 

He wants to put his hand on her chest, feel the thud of her heart against his palm. He wants to scoop her up, tuck her in bed, crawl in after her and on top of her. He wants to kiss her until she’s whining beneath him, work her up slow and unrelenting, get his fingers and his mouth on her until she’s soaked and desperate, hands twisting in the sheets, skin blushing as pink as her cunt. 

“What’s up, big brother?” 

Bellamy startles, knocked out of his reverie, but manages to pull it together before Octavia notices anything wrong. 

“Uh, just got back from work,” he replies lamely, shrugging his shoulders. “You two need anything before I turn in?”

Octavia makes grabby hand motions at him, like she used to when she was a toddler. 

“Come here Bell, give me a goodnight kiss.”

He can’t resist teasing Clarke a little.

“How ‘bout you princess, you want a goodnight kiss too?”

Clarke bites her lip, but doesn’t say anything, working with exaggerated concentration on Octavia’s hair. 

He trails obediently over to the couch, leans over to give Octavia a kiss on the forehead. She smiles, looks like butter wouldn’t melt for one surprising and uncharacteristic moment, then wrinkles her nose. 

“Ugh, you stink. Have you been smoking again?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “I work in a bar, O. You’re lucky that cigarette smoke is the only thing I smell of.”

“Yuck.” She sticks her tongue out at him, and he tugs on one of her pigtails until she bats his hand away. 

“Will you get me some water?”

“Sure, brat.”

The kitchen is somehow even worse than the living room. He doesn’t know how they managed to use every pan they owned to make macaroni and cheese, but he’s grateful he wasn’t here to see it. 

He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs deeply. He’s so tired he’s swaying on his feet, but really he should start tidying up now, set the pans to soak to make it easier for himself in the morning. At least he should wipe the cheese sauce off the wall before it stains the paintwork.

“Hey.”

He turns to see Clarke standing in the doorway. She’s wearing flannel pyjamas that are at least one size too big for her, sleeves rolled up around her elbows. Her hair isn’t braided, sits messy around her shoulders, just the way he likes it. 

She really is heartbreakingly pretty. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly. He gestures to her hands, currently fiddling nervously with the hem of her shirt. “I like your nails. They match your eyes.”

She snorts and looks at the floor, twisting her toes into the busted linoleum. “That’s such a weird compliment.”

It’s a good effort at normality, but her voice wobbles, colour already blooming in her cheeks. 

Bellamy grins back, attempts to play along but feels it fall a little flat, too tired to summon up his usual defences. Fuck, they’re both useless.

Water. He turns around, reaches up into the cupboard for a clean glass, thankfully finds one way at the back of the top shelf. It’s old, left over from when they were into Disney, has one of the princesses printed on it, colour beginning to flake off.

Clarke walks over, the squeak of bare feet on the floor signalling her approach. 

“I’m sorry about the mess.”

“No worries,” he replies automatically. 

“Are you alright?” She’s next to him now, hesitantly reaches up to put her hand on his shoulder, her eyes bright with concern. 

“Just tired,” he reassures her. “I’ll be fine in the morning, princess.”

He fills the glass at the sink, sets it on the counter. 

He should walk away from Clarke, take O her water, go to bed, alone. Jerk off to the memory of Clarke’s hand on his shoulder like some special brand of Victorian pervert. 

The standard routine. 

Instead, he turns when he feels Clarke pulling on his shoulder, allows her to awkwardly yank him into a hug, standing on tiptoe so she can wrap her arms around his neck. Wraps his own arms around her, nuzzles into the warm skin of her neck. Resists the urge to kiss it. 

He’s still wearing his leather jacket, cold from the frigid night air. Clarke presses herself against him anyway, lets him steal her body heat through the thin flannel of her pyjamas. She doesn’t seem to care that he smells of stale cigarette smoke.

They stay like that for a while. Bellamy feels his eyes drooping, wants to fall asleep there and then, cuddling her in the middle of the kitchen floor.

“You can go to bed,” Clarke whispers into his ear. “Octavia and I will clear everything up tomorrow.”

He draws back just far enough that she can see his face, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. “You and Octavia, huh? You mean you’ll tidy up while she sleeps late?”

Clarke shrugs, doesn’t take the bait. “I don’t mind. It’s better than you doing it on your own.”

Bellamy opens his mouth to argue, yawns instead. He pulls Clarke back into him, buries his nose in her hair. Surprisingly, she lets him. 

It’s perfect. Too perfect, with Octavia one room away. 

He knows that if he holds her for too long he won’t want to let go, so he lets himself sink down, slowly rests more and more of his weight onto her until her knees start to buckle and she struggles away with a laugh.

“Hey!” she protests, grinning even as she pushes him off her. “Someone needs to lay off the beer, you weigh a ton.”

He gasps, mock-outraged, and lunges in to try and tickle her, tiredness forgotten. 

Clarke yelps, twists away, takes a step back and bumps straight into Octavia. 

Bellamy stops dead.

“Just come to check on my water,” Octavia says breezily, but he sees the confused look on her face, the way her eyes flick back and forth between him and Clarke. “What’s taking so long?”

He stutters, but Clarke grabs the full glass from the counter, presses it into Octavia’s hand.

“Bell’s being an ass,” she lies smoothly. At least, he hopes she’s lying. 

Clarke walks back to the living room, leaving him alone in the kitchen with his sister.

Octavia takes a long sip of her water, taps her nails against the glass. There’s something calculating in her eyes that he’s not seen before. He knows he should say something, lighten the heavy mood, but he’s never been any good at lying to her. 

Octavia had learned to read his face before she’d learned to walk. He has no shot at deceiving her about anything. 

“Being an ass, huh? That sounds about right.”

\- 

This is why Bellamy has always known that developing feelings for Clarke was a colossal fuck-up of epic proportions.

He knew that Octavia wouldn’t care about any of the normal objections to him and Clarke getting involved. She wouldn’t care about the age difference, or accuse him of being some kind of sister-fucking weirdo. She was never going to lie awake at night worrying about anything as petty and mundane as losing her best friend to her brother. 

No. Bellamy knows Octavia, his jealous, possessive, adored baby sister. She’s used to being the centre of attention, comfortable in their little family of three where she gets to be a part of everything that goes on. No boundaries, nothing off limits. She’s been indulged by he and Clarke far too many times to be able to handle the idea that they might share something that she isn’t involved in, can’t understand. He knew that she’d be utterly consumed by the idea that Clarke could see a side to her brother - _her_ brother - that she couldn’t see. That he would find something in Clarke that he couldn’t, and shouldn’t, find in her.

That’s really the only explanation for what happens next. 

\- 

It’s a Tuesday night a few weeks later, one of those rare nights when Clarke isn’t sleeping over, so Bellamy can relax. He and Octavia are watching re-runs of some reality show that Octavia is obsessed with, something inane and a little annoying. Perfect to fall asleep to, so he isn’t surprised when his eyes start to close halfway through the third episode. He’s had a couple of beers, just enough to get a light buzz and help dissolve the stiffness that seems to be a permanent feature of his shoulders these days.

Not fighting it, he lets himself fall asleep in their beat-up armchair, sprawled out and relaxed. He spends his life in a constant state of frustrated arousal these days (Clarke bought herself a crop top this weekend, and he’s already jerked off twice thinking about coming on the perfect unblemished skin of her tummy) so it’s not surprising that he dreams about a girl he fucked a few times at high school, a cheerleader who didn’t mind a bit of rough as long as none of her friends found out. 

Dream-cheerleader is trailing her long bubblegum pink nails down his stomach when he wakes to find his baby sister groping his erection through his shorts. 

Bellamy gets a glimpse of dark hair and intent eyes, and instantly slams his own eyes shut, fast enough that Octavia doesn’t notice. He forces his breath to remain steady, lets his body stay limp and relaxed. buying himself some time to figure out what the fuck is going on.

Octavia, his little sister, the girl he’s practically raised from birth and knows better than he knows himself - or at least so he’d thought - is on her knees in front of him, currently running her skinny fingers up and down his cock, a thin layer of polyester the only thing separating their skin.

If he was a better man, he would throw her off him, sit her down for a strict talk about boundaries. Use lots of big words like ‘consent’ and ‘sexual assault’ and ‘illegal’. Not to mention the biggest word of all - ‘incest’. 

Instead he lies there in shock, harder than he’s ever been, willing his heartbeat to slow down. Lets Octavia slowly explore the shape of him through his shorts, squeeze him gently, attempt to wrap her hand around him through the fabric and jerk him off with halting movements. His traitorous cock twitches when he realises the trouble she’s having with his size, sparking a red-hot visual of her little hand unable to close around the heft of him. 

The big brother in him struggles not to intervene, wants to help her, wants to show her exactly how to stroke him, like he’s shown her everything else in her life. 

Eventually she figures out how to use both hands, gets some semblance of a rhythm going, and he starts struggling for a whole different reason.

Maybe he can justify letting Octavia feel him up, pretending to be asleep, convince himself that he didn’t want to embarrass her or ruin their relationship forever, but there’s no way he can let his little sister make him come and expect the Sun to rise again tomorrow as if nothing’s changed. 

He lasts longer than he thought he could. Far less time than he should have. He knows that he’s done for when the sensation of her hands disappears, replaced by the sound of his zipper being pulled down. He isn’t wearing underwear, and he’s got no time to brace himself before her slender little fingers curl around his cock. 

Even then, he thinks he can control himself, pull them both back from the brink, but then he feels the soft curtain of her hair brush along his thighs, her breath on his skin, the faintest _suggestion_ of her mouth, and he loses it. 

He almost digs his nails through the skin of his palms with the effort it takes not to open his eyes and look at his sister’s face, covered with his come. 

-

The next morning he watches Octavia cheerfully make her way through a plate of toast and off-brand Nutella, both relieved and faintly horrified to find that nothing seems to have changed between them. 

Not surprisingly he’d slept badly last night, waking up early this morning and lying in bed for an hour trying to figure out if it had actually happened. The whole thing, from waking up to Octavia leaving him there, could only have lasted for ten minutes, if that. He’d continued to lie in the armchair for a while afterwards, listening to Octavia clean herself up in the bathroom and get ready for bed, only opening his eyes when he heard her bedroom door shut. His dick had been neatly tucked back in to his shorts, zipper closed, skin clean. No trace of what had happened. 

For all he knew, it could all have just been a fucked up dream. It had definitely felt like a dream. Or a weird porn film - like he was watching some other man pretend to be asleep, some other man letting his little sister give him a hand job. And enjoying it.

He eyes Octavia surreptitiously over his coffee mug. She looks fine. She doesn’t look traumatised, or guilty, or any of the things you might reasonably expect a teenage girl to look like the morning after…taking advantage of her brother. She looks normal. There’s no indication that she’s taken the most important rule of their universe, a rule more sacred and fundamental than gravity, and ripped it up. 

_Thou shalt not fuck your brother._

Either nothing happened last night, or he’s raised a sociopath. 

“What? Do I have something on my face?” Octavia asks, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Bellamy takes a gulp of his coffee, clears his throat. 

“Yeah, there’s something horrible just…there…” He points at her face and squints exaggeratedly. “Oh, my mistake. It’s just your face, sorry.”

She rolls her eyes, takes another bite of toast. “You’re such a dork. What are you, twelve?” she retorts, mouth full. 

Okay, so he’s raised a savage with the table manners of a goat. That’s no great revelation. But he’s pretty sure that he hasn’t raised a criminal mastermind. There’s no way that Octavia could have done that to him last night, and sit here with him now and not show a single outward sign. 

It must be the stress. He’s spent so long fantasising about Clarke and worrying about Octavia finding out that his brain somehow melded them together and spat out the world’s most disturbing sex dream.

Octavia’s phone buzzes. She shoves the rest of her toast into her mouth and scoots her chair back, grabs her bag from the table and stands to leave.

“Later, big brother.”

She’s almost out the door when Bellamy speaks.

“O?”

She pauses, her hand on the doorknob, hesitates before she turns around. When she meets his eyes, Bellamy’s stomach drops.

He gets his confirmation in her eyes. In the fear he sees there. Octavia has never been scared of him before, not once. Never had a reason to be, until now. 

Now, when she thinks that he’s somehow found out what she did to him last night. 

He holds out the school book she’d left on the table. 

“You forgot this.”

\- 

If Bellamy thought he was being tortured before, it’s nothing compared to the hell he goes through over the next few weeks, a grown man undone by two teenagers.

On a logical level, he can understand, almost justify what happened. Octavia’s actions make sense, in a fucked up way. She’s young, and painfully curious, and never thinks through her actions to their inevitable conclusions. He’s spoiled her. For so long he’s been the centre of her universe, the one who took care of her and taught her everything she needed to know. He’s never enforced any boundaries between them, always allowed her to do whatever she wanted, use him however she wants. It was only natural that, wanting to understand what was going on with him and Clarke, she’d turn to her big brother for answers as she did with everything else. 

Yeah, he can understand what she did. What he can’t understand, can’t forgive, is the fact that he’d enjoyed it.

At first, he tries to explain away his enjoyment as a product of shock, taboo, simple mechanics. He’s watched enough questionable porn to know that sometimes the dirty-wrong factor of something can get you off, even if isn’t something that really turned you on. He’s never thought of his sister in that way before, and certainly isn’t going to start now.

Except, something has changed.

He feels like he’s seeing Octavia for the first time. It’s not only the shock of what she’s done, the discovery of a whole new side to his sister’s personality. It’s that he feels like he’s spent the last few years in a daze, so fixated on all the ways that Octavia has stayed the same that he’s somehow missed all the ways that she’s changed, all the ways that she’s grown up right in front of him.

In those short interludes when she’s not being completely obnoxious, he sees what other men, men who aren’t her brother, must see when they look at her. Dark, intense eyes, cheekbones sharp enough to cut, wicked mouth that’s equally likely to break into a smile or a snarl. Long legs and slim hips and the tiniest, cutest tits that don’t even need a bra most of the time, judging from her laundry. 

Bellamy hates that he knows that. Hates how he knows that. 

Octavia’s still a brat, but it’s not the brash stroppiness of childhood any more. It’s pouting, and sulking, and wrapping people around her little finger until she gets exactly what she wants. It’s fucked-up sexy. 

He can’t look at her without remembering what she did to him, visceral memory that hits him like a punch to the gut. Thinking about how it felt, her little hands on him, how inexperienced she’d been, how hot it had gotten him to lie back and let her do whatever she wanted. The difference between how she normally acts, so certain and confident, and the unsure way she’d touched him when she thought that no one was looking. He’d never known that his little sister could be so gentle, even as she was doing something so mind-bendingly wrong. His mind keeps getting stuck on the contradiction, playing it over and over in his head as he cooks dinner, goes to work, hangs out with Octavia and Clarke like everything’s normal. 

He wonders what would have happened if he’d held on for just a minute longer. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed that he doesn’t know what it feels like to have his sister’s mouth wrapped around his cock.

Bellamy wishes he could say that he’s stopped thinking of Octavia as his little sister, that he’s started thinking of her instead as a beautiful girl he happens to live with, but that wouldn’t be true. He’s never been so aware of the fact that she’s his sister, and it only makes it worse.

\- 

Bellamy leans on the grocery cart, letting his weight carry it forward a couple of feet before standing up and stopping its momentum with a loose hand. He looks around for any sign of Octavia, bored and ready to get out of here, not really wanting to waste his Saturday afternoon in the discount grocery store. 

They were already in the freezer section, one step from freedom, when Octavia remembered that they were out of cream cheese. Had insisted on running back and grabbing a tub while he waited here, something he’s rapidly starting to regret. 

He checks his watch. It’s been five minutes - she’s probably taken a detour through the beauty section, leisurely looking at 2-4-1 offers on hair conditioner with no thought for Bellamy stuck here, shivering his ass off next to the frozen meat. She’s such a pain in the neck sometimes. He sighs, and sets off to find her.

He’s not surprised to find Octavia in the haircare aisle. Bellamy can always rely on his sister to be where she’s not supposed to be. 

He is surprised, however, to find Octavia talking to a boy, some kid her age with a faux hawk and baggy jeans that set his teeth on edge. Even from here Bellamy can see that she’s blatantly flirting with him, laughing at something he’s said, letting her gaze fall to the floor and then back up to meet his eyes coquettishly, twirling a lock of hair around one finger. She cocks her hip slightly, her body loose and swaying towards him, the tub of cream cheese held at her side, forgotten. 

His little sister is many things, but subtle is not one of them. 

The boy smiles back at her, and Bellamy is shocked at the anger rising in his chest. 

Who the fuck does this kid think he is, hitting on his sister? He can’t even scrape together enough brain cells to buy jeans that fit - he’s got no chance with someone like her, someone as stunning and intelligent and brilliant as Octavia. There’s no way that he could ever be good enough for Bellamy’s little sister. The thought of it is laughable.

He has no idea what Octavia could see in this boy. This idiot, who only sees how beautiful she is, sees her glossy hair and her flashing eyes and her lithe little body, wants to get her under him and on his dick. This boy just wants to fuck her. He doesn’t know her, can’t begin to possibly understand how amazing Octavia is, her quick wit and mercury moods, her endless energy, her big heart. He hasn’t watched her grow up, been there for her every day of her life, looked after her when she was hurt and held her when she was upset. Made her smile. Kept her safe.

This boy wouldn’t do anything for her, wouldn’t die for her, wouldn’t lie down willingly and let her cut out his liver every day for the rest of eternity. Not like Bellamy would. 

He thinks about Octavia touching this boy the way she’d touched him, and clenches his jaw. Feels sick and darkly possessive at the idea of someone else being her first blowjob, her first fuck, her first anything.

She’s his sister, and it’s his job to look after her, to show her everything she needs to know. He’s her first love. It only makes sense that she has all her other firsts with him too. 

“O?” he shouts down the aisle, feels smug when she comes running to him, leaving the boy behind without a second glance. 

\- 

In retrospect, it was always going to happen again. The only surprise is how long it takes - Octavia doesn’t make a move for weeks. He doesn’t know if she’s trying to hold herself back, or if she’s simply struggling to find a night when they’re both around and Clarke isn’t at the house. 

The more time passes, the tighter the tension between he and Octavia stretches, until he finds himself waiting for it to snap. He watches her, wishing he could tell what she was thinking, what her plans for him are, holding his breath with every move she makes. He goes to sleep each night half-expecting to be woken up by her again, the anticipation growing with each morning that he wakes up fully rested and alone. 

He doesn’t know if he’s imagining it, or if Octavia feels it too. She has no idea he was awake, doesn’t know that he knows what she did to him - but she must be able to sense that something has changed, that there’s something there that wasn’t there before. Maybe she has noticed, but thinks that he’s oblivious. Maybe she’s figured out that her big brother wants to fuck her, but thinks it’s a coincidence. The layers upon layers of deception are enough to make his head spin.

He’s never been so wholly at anyone’s mercy before. He has no way to make a move on her without revealing himself, has handed all his power over to Octavia, and he can’t tell if he likes it or not. He worries at the thought, constantly, not knowing how to identify half of the feelings that it stirs up in him.

It’s a devil’s bargain. He can fuck his sister, gets to be absolved of all the guilt, all the responsibility - but loses all the control along with it.

And the whole time that this is going on, Clarke remains untouched, perfect, impossible. She blushes and stammers and vacillates between pretending he doesn’t exist and acting like he’s the only person in the universe. His feelings for her haven’t been affected at all by whatever’s going on with Octavia - if anything, he’s more desperate for Clarke, constantly wound up tight and turned on whatever way he looks.

\- 

Bellamy’s lounging on his bed, trying to keep his mind on his history textbook. He takes as many courses at the community college as he can afford, and usually the work is a welcome respite from all the shit going on in his life. 

Not today, though. Today, he feels like he’s going to explode from tension, and reading about the bloody end of the Romanovs is not improving his mood. 

He lets the book drop to the floor and rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling. At some point he should repaint it - there are dots of discolouration everywhere from blu tack, a memento of his early teenage years when he’d plastered every available surface with band posters. 

His door is closed, but like always Octavia doesn’t bother to knock, barges straight in and drops herself on the bed next to him. She’s so light the mattress doesn’t even bounce. He pushes down the impulse to roll over on top of her, grab her wrists in one big hand, pin her down with his hips. Provoke her. Make her do _something._

She wriggles over so she’s closer to him, props herself up on her elbow, stares into his face. She’s in a good mood - her eyes are sparkling. 

“What are you up to?”

“Playing the flute,” he replies dryly. “What do you want?”

“Someone’s grouchy,” she notes, and flops down next to him, their heads on the same pillow. She stares up at the ceiling too, for thirty blessed seconds of silence. 

“Fascinating. I can definitely see why you prefer this to hanging out with your favourite sister.”

“My least favourite sister,” he counters, on autopilot. 

She punches his arm and he winces, rubs the sore spot. She’s petite, but she’s all lean muscle and her jabs are always surprisingly painful. 

“Your only sister, ass.” 

He doesn’t reply, and she scoots herself under his arm, snuggles up to his chest. 

They’ve lain together like this a thousand times, but it feels new. He’s hyper-aware of her proximity, her tits pressed into his side, her slim leg slung up high on his thigh. It takes all his effort not to get hard just from cuddling his little sister. 

“You look tired,” Octavia says eventually, lifts her hand to ruffle his messy hair. “Come and watch TV with me. I’ll get you a beer. You should relax.”

It’s a fifteen year old’s attempt at manipulation. Transparent, obvious, easily avoidable. Octavia has never once expressed any concern over his wellbeing. Only a few weeks ago she was making fun of Clarke for offering to help with the washing-up. 

Bellamy has no excuse for letting her lead him into the living room. For accepting the beer she gets him from the fridge. 

Or the second beer. 

Or the third beer, offered with an unreadable smile that sends heat curling through his body, sharp anticipation that only builds as the clock ticks on and the night draws in.

With each beer he’s lighter, more relaxed. Not because of the alcohol. Because he knows that he’s given in, that there’s no turning back now. That the difficult part - making the choice - is over. 

This time he lets himself fall asleep on the couch, knowing full well when he wakes up, it’ll be to Octavia’s hands on his sleeping body.

\- 

Now Bellamy knows what his sister’s mouth feels like on his cock.

\- 

Bellamy keeps waiting in vain for the line that he’s not willing to cross. He lets his sister touch him, blow him, even - lying there, forcing his breath to stay steady, hands shaking with the urge to touch her - fuck him.

He lets his baby sister climb on top of him, lose her virginity to him, and doesn’t do a single thing to stop it. Feels her tight, silken cunt struggle to take him, listens to her pain-pleasure moans, bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds. Gets harder than he’s ever been in his life, knowing that no matter what happens, he’ll always be her first. She’ll always carry him with her, deep inside where it counts.

The one concession to morality he makes is never letting himself come inside her. He waits until she’s finished, comes in her hand or her mouth, or - on one painful night - not at all, left hard and wanting after she came, hopped off him and went to her room, barely bothering to tuck him back in. Octavia is not, apparently, a generous lover.

He doesn’t know what kind of man he’s become, that not knocking up his baby sister has somehow become an honourable action.

Every hard limit he thinks he has, Octavia shatters. And he just lies there and lets her.

\- 

The front door slams. 

“We’re home,” Octavia shouts.

It’s a Friday afternoon, and Bellamy’s feeling pretty good. He slept in this morning, has had the day to himself, messing around and playing Xbox. For once he’s looking at a whole weekend without a shift at the bar - a scheduling mix-up that will hit his wallet hard, but it’s difficult to get really annoyed when he thinks about an entire two days of rest and relaxation stretching out in front of him.

And now his girls are home.

“Hey brat,” he grunts, not bothering to look up from his game when they walk into the living room. He’s just reached a particularly tricky part, and he knows from experience that he needs to concentrate - he’s already had to restart this level twice this afternoon, and he’s not in the mood to do it again. 

Bellamy ignores Octavia as she sits next to him, pushes away all the memories of what happened last time they were on this couch together. The way she’d clenched down on his cock as she came, the sharp pressure of her knees against his sides, the slick sound of her rubbing her clit as she used him to get off. Afterwards, when she’d got down on the floor and licked him clean of her come, made him come in her mouth and then licked him clean all over again. 

He doesn’t want to think about fucking his sister right now. Not when Clarke’s here.

Bellamy tries to focus on the game, but Clarke is right there, being so cute and obvious it’s distracting. She’s pretending to read a two month old magazine, staring at him every chance she gets, every time she thinks that she can get away with it. She might as well be holding the magazine upside down for all the attention she’s paying to it. He senses her eyes travelling over his body like a physical caress, heat blooming in its wake. He’s not wearing underwear and lust rushes through him when her gaze travels to his crotch, eyes widening infinitesimally before she tears them away. Clarke’s squirming in the chair and it’s not even 5pm yet. 

He thinks about throwing aside the controller, getting down on his knees and crawling over to her, nosing under her skirt and getting his mouth on her cunt. Her white cotton panties are probably already damp, maybe a little see-through from how much she wants him. It would be so easy to peel them off, find out for himself exactly how wet she’s gotten just from being in the room with him. It would take so little to get her even wetter, get her riding his face, those plush thighs wrapped around his head, his fingers digging into her hips. 

He loses his game.

As soon as he drops his controller Octavia is snuggling up to him, and he puts his arm around her, kisses the top of her head, the chaste gesture a stark contrast to the memories that are still reverberating in his mind. Clarke is still watching them, and not for the first time he wonders what she knows, if Octavia has confessed to her what she does to her brother when he’s sleeping. He doesn’t think Clarke knows - she’s a good girl.

\- 

The rest of the evening is more of the same. He’s trapped, chasing his own tail, caught between his memories of Octavia and his dreams of Clarke. Guilt, lust, frustration, building up until he thinks he might vibrate apart at the seams. 

It’s a split-second decision, to grab a beer from the fridge. Octavia’s eyes go wide when she sees him drinking, and he feels gratified at her reaction. 

The ball’s in her court now. He can’t take what he wants directly, but Octavia and Clarke aren’t the only ones who can tease. 

He makes a big show of acting tired, sinks low in the armchair, drinks two beers and lets the alcohol flow through him, taking the edge off. He’s a big guy - two beers isn’t nearly enough to send him to sleep, but Octavia doesn’t know that. Years of shift work have left him with the ability to fall asleep anytime, anywhere. 

Bellamy knows he’s playing with fire. They’ve never done anything with Clarke in the house before. This could go wrong, will go wrong, in any one of a hundred ways.

He falls asleep.

-

Bellamy wakes up to Octavia pulling the blanket off him. She’s turned the light on - he can see the yellow glow through his eyelids.

Lust courses through him, rapidly followed by disbelief.

He can’t believe she’s really going to do this. That Octavia’s really desperate enough to fuck her brother while her best friend sleeps only a few rooms away. He thinks about about her wet, needy little cunt, how it’s going to feel around him, the proof of how much she wants him. How much she must need her big brother to take care of her, fill her up, to risk doing this.

The possibility of Clarke walking in on them adds a razor edge to his arousal, makes everything brighter and sharper like a whisky chaser. He imagines what it would look through Clarke’s eyes - Octavia’s slim little body moving on him, still barely able to take his cock despite all the times she’s come shuddering on it, the uneasy pleasure on her face. A part of him almost wants Clarke to catch them, wants to see the shock on her face, the desire underneath it, a breathless combination of jealousy and trepidation. He wants to show her how good he could make her feel. 

Octavia goes slower than usual, takes her time kneeling next to him and easing his sweatpants down. He’s already getting hard, half out of his mind from lust, but she doesn’t rush for his erection like she usually does, waits for a long excruciating moment before she eventually reaches over and drags one soft fingertip up and along the length of him. 

Not being able to move or open his eyes makes everything so much more intense, forces him to concentrate on the sensation alone, one light stroke enough to make him shake. The unusually slow pace draws the tension even tighter, reminds him that he’s completely at Octavia’s mercy. He can’t force her to speed up, can’t make her touch him how he wants. She can do whatever she wants to him.

He’s ready to beg by the time Octavia finally strokes him, her hand moving in a steady rhythm, adding a little twist each time to make up for how much of him her hand doesn’t cover. Her initial nervousness at touching him melted away weeks ago, and she’s gotten so good at this now, getting him so hard so quickly his head buzzes. But then again, Octavia’s always been a fast learner when there’s something in it for her.

Bellamy doesn’t know what kind of mood she’s in tonight. Octavia is unpredictable. After she gets him hard sometimes she likes to take her time with him, tease him with her mouth and her hands and her clever little tongue until he’s half a heartbeat away from coming at the slightest touch. It’s a strange and twisting feeling, to know that everything she’s doing to him is all for her own amusement, nothing to do with his pleasure beyond the essential task of getting him hard enough to use. She’s playing with him. Having fun with it. As if being on her knees in front of her brother is just another way to pass the time.

Other nights Octavia is all business, gets on top of him as soon as he’s hard, fucks him like she’s desperate for it, like all she’s been thinking about all day at school is having her brother inside her, deep and immediate. Or as if he could be anyone, like she just wants cock and she doesn’t care who it is. She’ll ride him fast, her little panting breaths and moans so loud in the quiet room it’s as if she’s goading him, wants him to wake up. Those nights are frustrating for her, he can tell - she’ll make herself come once, twice, again, until she exhausts herself and she has to get off him with a huff, giving up on grasping for something just beyond her reach. 

He knows what she needs, on those nights. She needs to get fucked - needs someone else to take control, to hold her down, to give her what she’s having to take. Those are the really dangerous nights, when he has to fight with his hardwired instinct to give her everything she wants, resist the urge to open his eyes and grab her, flip their positions and take charge. Those are the nights when his muscles ache afterwards, from the strength it takes to hold himself in check.

He hears his sister change position and tries to prepare himself for whatever she’s going to do next. 

Finds himself, as he somehow always does with Octavia, completely and totally unprepared for what does actually happen next.

Another hand wraps around him, but it’s not his sister’s hand. The skin is too warm, the touch too unsure, too tentative. 

_Princess_ , he thinks. 

His heart stops. Restarts in double time.

Clarke touches him like Octavia had the first time, not really sure how sensitive he is or what she’s meant to do. She traces her fingers over the skin of his cock, a touch so gossamer light he almost can’t feel it over the hammering of his heart trying to beat out of his chest. 

_Sweetheart, what are you doing?_

Bellamy’s head is spinning, trying to understand what’s going on. What could possibly have happened to bring Clarke into this mess, to pull her down into the murky depths with them.

How long has Clarke known? Had they planned this together from the beginning - the two of them snuggled together in their childhood bed whispering about how to get their hands on their brother’s body? 

Or is this just Octavia, the battering ram, pulling Clarke along in her destructive wake? Had an outstretched hand, a reassuring smile been all that she needed to get Clarke here, leaning over a sleeping Bellamy with her hand on his cock?

Clarke hesitates, her hand stilling on him, as if the full force of what she’s doing is finally hitting her. He pictures her biting her lip, her head racing as she debates whether to keep going or run away. His tender, serious girl. She’s not built for this.

Bellamy’s torn too. This isn’t how he’d pictured their first time together. He’s spent endless nights fantasising about being with Clarke, playing out a thousand different scenarios, and in every single one he’d taken care of her, given her exactly what she needed, made it perfect. He’d wanted to see her face the first time she saw him naked, be the one to ease her fear, guide her hand with his own as she learnt the shape of him and how he liked to be touched. He would have taken his time, explored every dip and curve of her, mapped each rib and the hollows behind her knees with his tongue, memorised the precise weight and feel of her tits in his hands. He would have learnt all the textures of her body, from the silk of her hair gripped in his fist to the velvet of her nipples held gently between his teeth. He would have ruined her for any other man, their hands inspiring only pale echoes of his touch. He would have got her trembling and gasping and reaching blindly for him, undone. And then he would have fucked her, slow and deep, his arms cradling her head on the pillow, kissing away every overwhelmed tear, made it so good for her that he got to keep her forever.

Over a thousand nights of fantasies, he’s never imagined anything like this for them.

But he can’t deny that a part of him wants it, wants to see his girl take what she wants from him, give in to every dream and secret desire she’s carried for months. He wants to see Clarke, free from her shyness and her embarrassment. Wants to see her corrupted, a little bit. Just enough bitterness to make the sweetness even sweeter.

He lies on the couch, breath caught in his chest, wondering what Clarke’s going to do. Wondering what choice she’s going to make for them.

Just when he thinks she’s going to bolt, her fingers starting to tremble on his skin, he feels Octavia’s hand again, feels her weave her fingers with Clarke’s, their hands interlocking around him. She guides Clarke through her nervousness, shows her how to stroke him, setting a familiar, steady rhythm that’s easy for her to follow. 

His cock twitches at the obscene image it inspires, his girls jerking him off, their fingers linked together like a daisy-chain. They’ve always been inseparable, done everything together. And now they’re doing him together.

Bellamy whines in his throat at the thought. Their hands don’t even falter on him, too absorbed in their game and each other to think about him. 

Despite his closed eyes, he knows that Octavia is smiling at Clarke, encouraging her on with that dangerous smile he’s seen so many times before. To an outsider it would look like their hands were moving in unison, in perfect sync, but he can feel that his sister is in charge, her hand a fraction faster, Clarke’s hand chasing hers on his cock, following Octavia as she always has.

Clarke really had no chance, with Octavia tipping the scale for her.

Their hands slow to a stop on him, hold him steady. It’s another slow, heart-hammering second before Bellamy feels Octavia’s tongue, licking around the head of his cock, flickering over the sensitive skin in that way that drives him mad. He has to grit his teeth to keep from thrusting up to get more of that wet heat. His sister always feels so good, knows precisely how to touch him, like she was made for him. Like their bodies were designed to fit together, just like this.

Octavia leisurely works him over with her mouth, gets every inch spit shiny and desperate, messily makes out with his cock until he’s barely hanging on. Bellamy wants to moan out loud, both from the feeling and from knowing that Clarke’s hand is on him, that she’s holding him steady for his sister’s tongue, that she’s feeling every tremor and pulse and reaction that flows through him. He’s never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, knowing that Clarke’s got a front row seat to every dirty thing Octavia is doing to him. 

His princess is watching Octavia suck his cock, those big blue eyes wide with curiosity and desire. Maybe she’s touching herself, delicate fingers tentatively rubbing her clit, little girl touches that could never feel as good as his big hands on her, would just make her even more aware that he’s not really there with her.

_Baby._

His whole body twitches as Octavia gently slaps his dick against her tongue, a filthy sensation that makes him feel dizzy even though he’s lying down. Bellamy can see it - his baby sister, mouth open, eyes locked with Clarke, tapping the fat head of his cock against the wet, pink flat of her tongue, grinning around him. 

Octavia taught herself to deep throat him weeks ago, knows how to get him off in thirty seconds flat. She’s terrifyingly efficient in bed, has applied all her startling intelligence and obsessive focus to learning how to get his body to do exactly what she wants with the least amount of effort. There’s something different about how she’s touching him tonight. Tonight isn’t about teasing him for her own amusement, or using him for her own enjoyment. Tonight isn’t about Bellamy or Octavia at all.

Tonight is all for Clarke’s benefit. 

Octavia is showing off, making sure that Clarke sees how good she is at doing this, how well she handles him. He doesn’t know if she’s genuinely trying to encourage Clarke, or if she’s trying to mark her territory - Octavia probably doesn’t know which it is either, caught up in that teenage girl best friend competitiveness that Bellamy has never been able to understand.

It sends a jolt of desire through him, the idea of them fighting over who gets to have him. 

Bellamy wants to know what Clarke is thinking, looking at her best friend with her lips wrapped around his dick, unashamedly, joyfully taking her pleasure from her sleeping brother’s body. Does she understand the game that his baby sister is playing with her? Does she care? Or is she too caught up in this, squirming and turned on, watching Octavia play with his cock like she owns it?

Is she jealous, wishing that it was her? Wanting to be in Octavia’s place, eager for the heavy weight of him in her mouth, his salt-bitter taste on her tongue?

Bellamy allows himself to imagine it. Clarke, awake in bed, long nights spent thinking of him just as he’s been thinking of her, separated by two thin walls and one possessive sister. His innocent girl caught up in dirty fantasies of sucking his cock, touching herself, silent and secretive next to a sleeping Octavia, turning her head into the pillow to keep quiet as she comes shaking on her fingers.

And now she’s here, watching Octavia do all the things she’s been dreaming about, so close to everything she wants. All she has to do is reach out and take them. Take him. 

_Sweetheart, please._ He can hear the desperation in his words, even if they’re only in his head. His hands shake with the urge to reach for her, to guide her onto his cock, ease her into it. 

Bellamy almost combusts when Octavia pulls away from him and he gets to feel Clarke’s soft, sweet lips on him for the first time.

Clarke’s so nervous, he can tell, her movements unsure and stuttering, probably intimidated by his size as she explores him with her tongue, ever so slowly getting used to the shape and feel of him. He knows that she’s overthinking it, trying to be the perfect student, trying to impress Octavia with what a natural she is.

His heart aches for her. Clarke needs someone to show her what to do, and he needs to show her, needs it more than he thinks he’s ever needed anything in his life. 

For one blinding moment Bellamy is so envious of Octavia he can’t think straight, jealous of his sister getting to see, getting to touch Clarke like this. He wants to run the rough pad of his thumb over her satin pink lips, tangle his fingers in her long blonde hair, gently push her down, encourage her to take him in her mouth. As much as she can. Just a little bit more than she thinks she can. Listen to the wet, desperate sounds of her on his cock, her virgin throat struggling to take him, his hand heavy and reassuring on the back of her neck, grounding her. Pull her off him, her blue eyes damp, lick the taste of himself from her mouth even as she’s still trying to catch her breath. Tell her what a good girl she is, how well she’s doing for him. How proud he is of her, how much he loves her.

Octavia may be her best friend, but he’s the one who knows what Clarke really needs right now.

Caught up in his own head, his jealousy, Bellamy can’t stop himself from thrusting up into Clarke’s mouth, going so deep she gags, her throat spasming around him. A thrill runs through him at the sound, a single bright moment of exhilaration before the panic hits him. 

_Fuck._

The loud sound of Clarke gagging on his cock rings through the room, and both girls freeze. 

Bellamy fights to keep his face relaxed, his breathing steady despite his heart beating fast in his chest, not sure if they’re watching him. 

He slipped up, but he isn’t ready for this to end yet.

Eventually they relax back into themselves. Bellamy can’t believe that they bought it. How can they be so trusting, so guileless, even while they’re doing this to him?

Clarke turns her attention back to his dick, laving her tongue over the head, playing with the little slit at the top to taste him, tracing random wet patterns over the shaft that are equally frustrating and tantalising. Gun-shy, she doesn’t try to swallow him down again. Bellamy is struck with guilt, wishes he could apologise, kiss her mouth soft and trusting again, soothe her back onto his cock, but he’s powerless to do anything but lie there, trying to be as still as possible now, make it easy for her.

Next time, he’ll control himself.

They start jerking him off again, their hands still joined, the contrast between their firm, sure movements and Clarke’s delicate tongue driving him to distraction, setting all his nerves alight. His eyes roll back into his head when Octavia gets back in on the action, her mouth joining Clarke’s, both of them licking and kissing his cock while they stroke him. Every so often he can feel their tongues meet, cross paths on his skin, and he groans at the shocking thought of them kissing around his dick, mouths wet and messy. He has to concentrate on keeping his eyes firmly closed, the desire to watch them overwhelming, both of his girls enjoying his cock and each other. 

His body shivers when their mouths disappear. He’s close to the edge, wound up and desperate, ready to do anything to get them back on him. 

Bellamy feels abandoned when he hears the unmistakeable sounds of kissing, the sloppy sound of his two girls making out with each other, their hands idly stroking his cock like an afterthought. He knew that teenage girls were cruel, but this is beyond the pale.

He whines, devastated and turned on beyond belief, knowing that Octavia is kissing Clarke, sharing the taste of their brother on their tongues. Doesn’t know if they’ve gotten carried away, high on what they’re doing to him, or if this is a common occurrence. Is this what they do together in bed at night, little kitten kisses that turn dirty and deep, grinding against each other, swallowing each other’s moans so they don’t wake him up? Hands inside underwear, fingers against clits, dipping inside to tease each other’s cunts. Getting to know each other better than they know themselves, the boundaries between their bodies blurred, so close it’s not quite masturbation, not quite possession. After, the same sweet taste licked from two sets of fingers. 

They pull apart, and Clarke sighs, faint and forlorn. 

_That’s right, baby._ He thinks, viciously. _She can’t take care of you like I can, can she?_

Octavia’s whisper cuts through his thoughts.

“Do you want to do it?”

Both their hands disappear from his cock, ignoring him now, but Bellamy doesn’t care, waiting for Clarke’s response. Nothing matters now except getting to fuck his girl, feeling her tight cunt around his cock, any way he can get it. 

He’s holding his breath, everything in him hanging on her answer.

“Have you?” Clarke finally responds. It’s difficult to make out the words clearly - she’s whispering, and her voice is huskier than usual, rasping, not used to his cock in her throat. 

It’s mind-blowing, how he can feel so guilty and so turned on at all at once. How quickly he’s getting used to it.

“A couple of times. It’s good, trust me.”

It should be humiliating, hearing two fifteen year old girls discuss the merits of fucking him like he’s not there. And it is humiliating, but its filthy hot too, the two feelings twisting together until he can’t pull them apart.

Clarke waits a long time before answering.

“Okay.”

There’s silence for a long time after that. Bellamy just lying there, hard and exposed, waiting. None of this feels real. He concentrates on the scratchy fabric of the couch against his skin, the lumpiness of the cushions under his back, to ground himself.

He hears the rustle of fabric, feet shuffling. Clarke undressing. Maybe Octavia is helping her, pulling off her tank top, pulling down her pyjama bottoms. Her very own little virgin sacrifice.

He can’t comprehend how far his sister is willing to let things go, as long as she can be in control. He may be taking Clarke’s virginity, but Octavia is the one taking her first time.

“You need to get on top of him. That’s the only way it works.”

The couch shifts under him, springs protesting as Octavia guides Clarke into position over him, gets her straddling his hips. Clarke accepts the manhandling without protest. His girl takes instruction so well.

Clarke perches on top of him, her knees tight against his sides. She wobbles slightly, the back of the couch moving as she grabs onto it for balance. 

He can feel the heat of her cunt above him, grits his teeth so hard that he worries he might crack a tooth.

Nothing in his life has ever been as difficult as lying there underneath Clarke, knowing how easy it would be to reach for her and pull her down onto his cock. He can feel that she wants it, her legs trembling with the effort it takes for her to hold herself up, feel her yearning for someone else to take the control from her. Wants him to wake up and look after her, just like he always has, just like she’s always trusted he would.

If he was a good man, he would help her. If he was a really good man, he’d open his eyes right now. 

But he is not a good man, Bellamy realises. So he tortures them both, and keeps his eyes closed.

Once Clarke is in place, unsteady as she is, he hears Octavia shift on her feet next to him, and the possibility hits him out of nowhere that she’s going to sit on his face, get a little something for herself too. All this time with Octavia and he’s never got a single taste of her cunt, never been able to think of a way to get her to ride his face without revealing himself. She must be soaking wet by now, and he wants all of it. 

He’s disappointed when Octavia’s slight weight settles across his thighs behind Clarke, but his disappointment fades when she grabs his cock.

Bellamy might not survive this.

“Now, just sit down on it.”

Clarke’s legs shake as she starts to lower herself, Bellamy so close to finally being inside her he can’t bear it, and then his fucking sister moves his cock, rubs the sensitive head over the hard bump of Clarke’s clit until Clarke gasps and Bellamy is ready to scream.

Clarke lifts up again, and Bellamy wants to cry. Fucking Octavia. 

There’s a pause, what must be some kind of silent exchange between Clarke and his sister, and Clarke lowers herself again. Bellamy knows his sister, and this time Bellamy is prepared for it, is able to control himself as Octavia moves his cock again, running the head up and down the entire wet length of Clarke’s pussy. 

God, Octavia’s good. Annoyed as he is, he can’t help but admire her style, working Clarke up until she’s ready to crawl for it, just like Bellamy would if he were in her place. 

It makes sense, he guesses, that he and his sister have the same style in bed. He’s just not used to being on this side of it. 

Clarke must be frantic with how worked up she is, desperate and needy, because even Octavia feels bad enough to try and calm her down.

“Sorry,” she whispers, low and sugary-innocent. “I’m just playing.You’re just so wet, I can’t help it. Try it again, I’ll be good this time.”

Bellamy imagines Octavia comforting Clarke, running her hands over her friend’s skin to soothe her, kissing her trembling lips until she can breathe normally again. Maybe she cups Clarke’s cheek in her palm, looks deep into those clear blue eyes, lashes rimmed with frustrated tears, smiles and holds her trembling gaze until Clarke smiles back at her. 

Bellamy is the one who’s about to fuck Clarke, so why does he feel like he’s the one intruding on something intimate?

Clarke lowers herself for the third time, and now Octavia chooses to be benevolent, holds him still at the perfect angle, makes it so easy that all of a sudden, he's inside Clarke.

He’s fucking Clarke.

She feels like nothing he could have ever imagined. Hot, and tight, so tight he’d worry about hurting her but she’s so wet, so slippery ready for him that there’s no resistance, just the smooth slide of her little cunt stretching out to take him. She doesn’t take it slow, doesn’t give herself any time to adjust, sits right down on his dick until he’s so deep he can’t remember what it was like not to be fucking her, can’t remember a single goddamn reason why he shouldn’t be fucking her all the time. 

Fucking Clarke is white hot, like oblivion.

It takes a while for Clarke to move. At first Bellamy thinks that she's still getting used to the sensation of his cock inside her, but then she wiggles awkwardly and its clear that she has absolutely no idea what to do. 

His hands tremble with the urge to grab her hips and guide her into motion, but thankfully Octavia steps in before he does anything stupid. 

“Come on.”

He doesn't know what magic his sister works, but whatever it is it gets Clarke moving, gets her knees underneath her and tentatively lifting herself halfway up on Bellamy’s cock. Even that small amount of movement is enough to make Bellamy want to sob, the tight liquid friction of her cunt setting his entire body alight. 

Clarke rides him with no rhythm, graceless and uncoordinated and so good he could die. She has no experience, doesn’t know how she’s meant to fuck him so she fucks him how she likes, no concern for how it feels for him. Every time she gets anywhere close to a rhythm she stops, or goes in the opposite direction, or does something completely different, never lets Bellamy adapt to her movements, gets him to the edge almost immediately and keeps him there the entire time.

She starts off slow but quickly forgets herself, slamming herself down on him so hard it hurts a little, adds a sharpness to the pleasure that makes it hotter. He would never have fucked her like this, not her first time at least, wouldn’t have wanted to scare her off. He feels wild, gone feral with the knowledge that his princess likes it rough.

It’s only a couple of minutes before Bellamy knows that he has to see it. Has to know what her pussy looks like full of his cock. 

Bellamy opens his eyes, a fraction of a fraction, just enough to be able to see her, adrenaline and fear rushing through him at the prospect of getting caught. He feels like a voyeur, seeing Clarke like this, intruding on a pleasure that somehow has everything and nothing to do with him. 

She’s got her head thrown back, her mouth open, nose scrunched up and eyes squeezed tight. Lost to what she’s feeling. Octavia is standing up on her knees behind her, Clarke pushing down on his sister’s outstretched hands for leverage as she works herself on his cock. Bellamy is briefly upset that she’s still wearing her top, that he doesn’t get to see those amazing tits bounce as she rides him. But he’s soon distracted by the sight of her cunt, skin flushed red and slick, stretched so wide around him it should be impossible, that there’s no way she should be able to take him. 

His greedy, stubborn princess, never taking no for an answer.

He watches as long as he dares, as long as he can, intoxicated by her, by the impossible sight of them together. But then Octavia starts to look up, and he has to close his eyes.

All too soon Clarke starts to speed up. She gets her fingers on her clit, blunt nails digging into his skin with every downstroke, fingers almost vibrating with how fast she’s rubbing herself, their pelvises slamming together with an obscene wet sound that’s almost enough to make Bellamy come on its own. 

“Oh, fuck,” she begins to moan, before the sound is cut off. Octavia.

Clarke’s cunt gets even tighter as she comes, but she doesn’t stop moving, keeps up her frenetic pace, the pleasure so intense that he thinks he’s going to bite through his tongue. She rolls her hips, draws it out as long as she can, riding the waves of her orgasm right through to the last possible second.

She must be so beautiful when she comes, desperate in her frenzy. He wishes he could sit up, watch her come, absorb every gasp and moan and panting breath, his hand on her clit, push her until she’s begging and clawing at his back, unable to take any more.

It’s that thought - the idea of pushing her to her limit, getting her sobbing with pleasure and her need for him, that tips him over the edge. 

Bellamy doesn’t try to hold himself back. He can restrain himself when it’s his sister, but this is different - this is Clarke, and there’s no way he’s not coming inside her their first time together. He wants to keep her full of him forever.

She keeps riding him while he comes, grinds down hard even though she must be oversensitive by now, sore. That’s how he knows that she wants to stay full of him too.

Eventually though, Clarke comes to a slow stop, her ass resting on his hips. She’s panting, every breath loud in the sudden silence, hips still twitching as she comes down gradually, her clit throbbing against his skin.

Octavia sits back down on Bellamy’s thighs, rocking slightly as she touches herself, letting out a long slow exhale as she comes, the noisiest he’s ever heard her. A little aftershock run through him at his sister’s orgasm, the idea that she’s getting off hard watching him fuck her best friend, but he’s too sated, too satisfied to get worked up again so soon. 

Bellamy lies there, feeling his heartbeat slow down, the sweat cooling on his body.

When he’d thought about his first time with Clarke, he’d always thought about holding her afterwards. Gathering her into his chest, pushing sweat damp hair off her forehead, kissing her until she fell asleep, curving his body protectively around hers under the covers. Watching her the next morning, getting to see her smile as she woke up in his arms, lazy morning kisses, her warm body snuggled into his.

But this - the comfortable weight of the two girls on him, the sound of Clarke’s fast breath, cock slowly going soft, still inside her - this is the closest they’ll get to an afterglow tonight.

Clarke gets off him far too soon, Octavia following her a second later.

They don’t make any noise as they tidy up around him. It’s the quietest they’ve been all night, not a single sound, the heavy atmosphere obvious even with his eyes closed. 

It’s not an easy silence. It’s not the kind of silence that invites whispered laughter, smiles hidden under hands, meaningful looks exchanged between best friends. It’s not a sated silence, sinking back into pillows, limbs lax and exhausted, eyes already slipping closed. 

It’s the silence of the blast zone. It’s the cold vacuum, the moment of obliteration, something new and unknown already rushing in to fill empty space. 

Someone wipes him clean. Someone else pulls the blanket back over him. The light clicks off. 

He wants to know - does Clarke pause, before she leaves him there? Stop, her hand on the doorknob, Octavia already disappearing into the pitch black hallway, and look back at him, sleeping there? 

_Princess._

Or does she go to his sister’s bed without a second thought?

-

Bellamy waits until he hears their bedroom door click closed, and opens his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic really kicked my ass. Next time I think that adding plot, context and (hopefully) consistent characterisation to a kinkmeme fill is a good idea...just stop me.
> 
> I'm tentatively planning to continue the series, so if you enjoyed this, let me know!
> 
> Come visit me - star-sky-earth.tumblr.com


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